


Not While I'm Around

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Husbands, Stiles is a Badass, also there might be a character death for just a hot second, and then some comfort, anyway, as usual, cause that bonus scene, fans self, got dang, i may have needed several breaks while writing that, like lots of hurt, my cat says hi, prepare yourself for a world of hurt, so much of the hurt, temporary i assure you, these boys I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29557407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: “Derek. Derek, do this for me, or I willmakeyou do this for me. I know—I know this sounds desperate, and it is. It is. But I can't—Derek, I can't live without him. I won't.Please. Please do this for me. I swear—I swear I can get him back.”[The death of Peter Hale.]
Relationships: Chris Argent/Derek Hale, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742245
Comments: 16
Kudos: 131





	Not While I'm Around

**Author's Note:**

> My word, beautiful birds! How did you get so gosh darn lovely? 
> 
> I am thinking there will be a total of 12 parts in this series. That's all I have planned for now, anyway...Though that could change at anytime, I'm sure. I'll be so unbelievably sad to have this series end but so fantastically happy that it is finished and that it exists in the world!
> 
> Almost as fantastically happy as I am about YOU existing in the world! My friend, please take care of yourself! You are so very, very, very important!
> 
> And now, enjoy! :D

Stiles sighs as a soft wind rustles through his hair, as he hears the grass around the Nemeton shift. He sensed Peter when he was nearing the clearing a few minutes ago. The young man is sprawled out on the massive tree stump, arms pillowing his head and eyes closed as he listens to the sounds of creaking branches and singing crickets and cooing mother birds. 

“You're meant to be making potions,” Peter says from the edge of the Nemeton, holding his ground until given permission to approach. The magical stump is prickly like that, invested in the old ways she remembers. Her glorious form of the past may have been stolen from her, but she still demands respect. 

Stiles hums and smiles, feeling the Nemeton's power tingle in the tips of his toes and fingers. “Taking a break. Magic is exhausting.” He slowly reaches one hand out towards Peter's voice, and the werewolf takes that as a sign of sanction. Stiles feels Peter's fingers tangle with his own, cracking an eye open as the older man plants his knees on either side of the spark's hips and leans down until their mouths are a breath apart. 

“You know, I've read sex magic is quite powerful,” Peter murmurs, peppering the younger man's lips and jaw with kisses as he grinds down on him. 

Stiles grunts and arches his back slightly, exposing his neck to the other man. “It's also draining. And bloody.” He opens his eyes when Peter raises himself up to look down at him. “I'm not having sex with you on a tree stump.”

Peter chuckles, untangling their hands and running his fingers down the younger man's face, tracing his nose and his lips and his chin, wrapping deftly around his pale neck with only the smallest amount of pressure. “We've had sex in the woods before.”

“Yes,” the young man concedes, “on a blanket. And we had lube.”

“Oh, clever boy, I'm sure you could conjure anything we need.” The werewolf leans down again, rubbing stubble along Stiles's jaw and taking an earlobe between his teeth. 

Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “Peter,” he gasps, blinking up at the man dazedly when he pulls away.

Peter studies his spark carefully, and concern blooms in his chest. “Stiles, what's wrong?”

The younger man tries to lift a hand to the werewolf's face, but halfway to its destination, it drops back to the stump with a _thunk_. “I'm okay,” Stiles whispers, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “I'm okay, I just...overdid it a little.”

“A little,” Peter repeats curtly, eyebrows furrowing as understanding dawns. “You can't move.”

Stiles sighs, blinking slowly. “Don't be angry.”

“I'm not angry,” the older man growls, shifting until he's hovering above Stiles on his hands and knees. “You're in the middle of the woods, completely exposed, and unable to defend yourself. I'm _furious_.”

“I'm not defenseless,” the spark argues, flashing his eyes a bright white to emphasize his point. “I think you know better than that.”

“And I think you know better than to work yourself into a state of extreme exhaustion.”

Stiles smirks, and he lifts his chin, exposing his neck. “You gonna punish me, Peter?”

Peter's jaw tightens, and he sighs, leaning down and wrapping himself around his mate. He buries his nose into the crook of Stiles's neck and inhales deeply. “No,” he says, tightening his grip. “Not right now.”

Stiles hums, bringing weak arms up and around the older man. “Later?”

“Perhaps,” Peter says. “Right now, I am going to hold you. And you are going to go to sleep.”

Stiles smiles tiredly, his eyes falling shut and his jaw cracking as he yawns. “Going to keep me safe, my big bad wolf?”

“Always.”

“Promise?”

Peter lifts his head, pushes Stiles's hair back, and kisses him long and deep. “Sleep, my love.”

Stiles does. Safe. Loved.

When he wakes, Peter is gone. And he's covered in blood.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek sprints into the Nemeton's clearing at full speed, lungs burning. He ran from the loft, barely sparing a moment to call Chris and tell the hunter where to meet him. And as Stiles comes into view, sitting on the ground with the large tree stump at his back, Derek is hit with the metallic tang of blood so strong that he can almost taste it on the back of his tongue.

The Alpha falls to his knees in front of the young man, hands fluttering close but not touching him as his chest heaves. “Stiles?” he asks, the name breathless and barely audible. 

Stiles's eyes are glossy and distant as he stares at a point over Derek's shoulder, his tone flat and small as he says, “Is it Peter's?”

Derek knows what the spark is asking, and the longer he draws in the sharp scent, the harder it is to deny who the blood belongs to. “What happened?”

“Derek.” Stiles puts power behind the name, and the faint flash in his eyes gives the older man hope that perhaps he might not be in shock.

Swallowing hard, Derek sucks in a short breath, hands cradling Stiles's face as he meets the young man's gaze. “It's Peter's.”

Stiles breaks then. He falls into Derek's arms and clutches at the man as sobs wrack him. Derek holds him as tightly as he dares. He hears Chris enter the clearing, finding the man's curious, concerned gaze as he reaches them.

“Stiles,” Derek says, reluctantly pushing the young man back and gritting his teeth at the shock of red. “I'm going to find him.”

Stiles shuts his eyes, shaking his head incredulously. “It's so much,” he says, the words forced and barely discernible. “Derek, it's so much blood.” 

Derek knows. It worries him, because Stiles's clothes are soaked, but they only hold close to half of the blood spilled. The center of the Nemeton is spattered in red as well, blood that hasn't yet seeped into the aged wood congealing in streaks and pools. 

“Chris is going to take you home to clean up,” Derek says, glancing at the hunter grimly. 

Stiles shakes, his weak grip on Derek's shirt falling away as he lists to the side. The Alpha keeps him upright, frowning as the young man says, “I can't move.” He swallows, and it looks painful. “I used up my magic making potions.”

Derek sighs. “Stiles,” he admonishes, more out of concern than anger.

Stiles nods, loosing a choked noise as more tears fall. He can't seem to stop them. “Peter was pissed,” he manages, breathing through the agony coiled in his chest. “I couldn't...I couldn't stay awake. Peter told me to sleep.” Stiles's chin trembles as he forces himself to meet his Alpha's gaze. “I'm sorry, Derek. I'm so sorry.”

Derek wipes the young man's tears with his thumbs, offering as reassuring a look as he can. “I'll come to you if I find anything.”

 _If I find Peter's body_ , are the unspoken words that echo around them as Chris gathers Stiles against him and carries the spark from the awful place.

0 o 0 o 0

Chris sits Stiles on the lid of the toilet, making sure he can stay upright by himself before stepping away to start the shower. As the water warms, he crouches in front of the young man, stripping him of his flannel and t-shirt. The garments are heavy with blood, and they slap wetly against the tile as he drops them to the floor. 

“You don't have to help me,” Stiles says quietly, tiredly. His eyes lose focus, and he blinks rapidly until the room stops weaving.

The hunter huffs skeptically, unbuttoning Stiles's jeans and peeling them off his legs. The denim is so soaked that it seems fused to his skin. “You think you're going to be able to stand in the shower on your own?”

One corner of Stiles's mouth quirks for half a second before he closes his eyes. The sensitive skin beneath his eyes is pink and puffy, and his cheeks burn from the tears he still hasn't been able to stop. “Peter would be jealous, me sharing a shower with someone else.”

Chris places a hand on the back of the young spark's neck, kneading the muscles there until Stiles opens his eyes. “I know,” he says carefully, sighing as he searches the defeated gaze staring back at him. “I know the feeling of being unbearably human.” Stiles releases a breath in a weak, stuttered gust. “But I also know the feeling of being half of a whole; the feeling of a heartbeat that matches my own.” He manages a small smile as a spark of something lights in the young man's eyes. “The feeling of a mate.”

The hunter moves his hand until it rests over Stiles's heart. “Stiles, if you can, with absolute certainty, _feel_ that Peter is dead—” Stiles whimpers at the word but grits his teeth, squares his jaw. Chris has never been one to sugar coat the grim and the terrible. “—then I'll call Derek and tell him to stop looking.” The young man bites his bottom lip and lowers his head, but Chris puts a finger under Stiles's chin and raises it until their gazes meet again. “But I don't think that's what you're feeling right now.”

Guilt washes over the young man, and he can't help the words that bubble up his throat. “It's my fault.” He drags in a tight, labored breath. “I shouldn't have pushed myself. He wouldn't have had to stay with me. Or-or-or I sh-should have been able to stop whatever happened. I don't even—” Stiles's breaths begin to come quicker. He can feel the panic, the hyperventilation. “I don't even know what happened to him. I don't know what I should have been able to stop. I don't—”

Chris takes Stiles's face in his hands, the same way he's seen Derek do so many times. “Stiles,” he says firmly, and the young spark grabs hold of the hunter's wrists, squeezing until Chris's fingertips tingle.

“He's alive,” Stiles says, tone trembling but sure. “He's alive, Chris.”

Chris nods. He believes the younger man with every fiber of his being, can see in Stiles's eyes the conviction of those words. Of a mate. “We will find out what happened to him. We'll find him alive,” he promises, thumbs stroking the apples of the young man's cheeks as he smirks. “And Peter will be insanely jealous that I got to take a shower with you.”

Stiles manages a wet laugh, sniffling and nodding like he believes the words. 

He has to believe them.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek follows Peter's scent into the forest. After almost half an hour, he's frustrated to find himself back at the Nemeton. Assuming he's crossed Peter's first path to the clearing, he follows the trail again. And then again. Each time, he finds himself back at the large tree trunk.

He walks the perimeter of the clearing, carefully making his way towards the Nemeton in a spiral, then circling the stump twice before sighing and staring at the fantastical thing that shouldn't have a mind of its own but somehow, annoyingly, does. With a low growl, his eyes alight a bright red. 

And, suddenly, a different trail appears. It looks black with his Alpha eyes, and it leads him to the edge of the Nemeton where a loose section of bark sticks out crookedly. 

He leans down, grunting as he works clawed fingers into the dislocated wood and pulls it aside in chunks. An acrid smell makes him turn his head away, cover his nose as he coughs and resists the urge to gag. There's a large, open space beneath the trunk, dark and wet, covered in roots. 

Derek could have sworn this place collapsed after the Nogitsune incident years ago. He squints and peers into the darkness, eyes brightening to better see. 

The sight that meets him makes him draw in a tight breath.

0 o 0 o 0

Chris pulls his cellphone from his pocket as it vibrates, finding a text message from Derek.

_Is Stiles awake?_

He taps out a quick response, his shoulders tensing at the implications of the question. Derek could merely be asking about a member of his pack. But for some reason, it doesn't feel like that.

_No, he fell asleep about 20 minutes ago. Did you find anything?_

There are several moments before Derek's next response, and when it finally comes, the pit of Chris's stomach drops. 

_I found Peter. I'm in the elevator._

_I'm_ in the elevator. Not _we're_ in the elevator. Chris is on his feet and at the loft door in seconds, sliding it open in time to hear the elevator grind to a halt. 

0 o 0 o 0

Derek's boots feel heavy as he steps from the elevator. He's numb.

Peter hangs over his shoulder, pale and lifeless. There is no heartbeat beneath his chest. There is no breath in his throat. Derek doesn't want to admit to himself what that means—he's had to before.

The look that Chris gives the Alpha as he approaches the loft is a mixture of concern and grief. He moves aside so that Derek can pass through the door, make his way to the sofa, and lay his uncle across it. Peter's eyes are half-open, dull. There's an ugly gash on his abdomen, and his shirt is covered in brown, dried blood. 

“Derek...” Chris breathes, taking careful steps towards the other man and reaching out.

“What am I going to tell him?” Derek asks, voice thin and distant. He turns to the hunter with a lost expression, searching the man's eyes for an answer. “What am I going to tell Stiles?”

Chris gathers his mate against himself and holds tight.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles wakes with a gasp, gaze swiveling with disorientation before settling on the figure sitting beside him on his and Peter's bed. He breathes for a moment before blinking a few times and swallowing on a dry throat. “Derek?” he asks, voice weak and raspy.

“Hey,” Derek whispers, one hand tightening on the younger man's side. He takes a breath, holds it, releases it in a stuttered huff.

The pit of Stiles's stomach falls. “Did you find Peter?” His eyes already sting with tears, his jaw clenching as he steels himself.

Derek nods, his face carefully blank. “Yeah. I found him.”

The younger man begins to tremble as the tears fall and soak into the pillow beneath his head. “Take me to him?”

The Alpha helps him sit up and stand, leading him from the bedroom and into the loft's living room, where Chris stands solemnly. Derek keeps hold of his arm as they carefully make their way around the sofa, where Peter's body lies.

The ache that Stiles feels as he sees his mate is indescribable. He forgets to breathe, chokes on a broken noise that sounds like the ripping of his very soul. His legs give out, and Derek grabs hold of him to keep him from falling. But he pushes the other man away, stumbles to Peter's side and falls to his knees.

“Peter,” he mouths, not entirely sure if the name even passes his lips. His hands flutter over the man's body, taking in the wound on his abdomen, the blood on his clothing, the lifeless stare of his eyes. “No, no, no. This wasn't—This _can't_ —” His fingers grip Peter's shirt and twist the fabric violently. “Peter, what happened?”

“Stiles—” Derek chokes on the name, flinching as the spark whips his head around and glares at him with glowing, white eyes.

“No!” Stiles shouts, and the room seems to shake around them. “There's something we can do. There's _something_.” He turns back to Peter and cries out as if seeing him for the first time again. “He can't—I can still feel him. _Why can I still feel him?_ ” He turns back to the Alpha desperately, his eyes a soft honey-amber again. “You can still feel him—can't you?”

Derek takes a breath, carefully stepping forward and going down to his knees besides Stiles. He reaches a trembling hand out, placing it on Peter's shoulder, and closes his eyes. He searches—more for Stiles's sake than anything—and finds...nothing. A deadened strand is all that's left of the tether Peter once had in their pack. Derek's chest aches as he opens his eyes and lets tears fall down his cheeks. 

“I can't,” he whispers, daring to look the younger man in the eyes as he drags in a shuddering breath. “He's gone, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No,” he grinds out through gritted teeth. “He's here. He's _right here_.” His hands shake as they clench around fistfuls of Peter's t-shirt. “We just have to...We can...” Stiles looks away, his gaze roaming the room like the answer is lying somewhere and just needs to be found. “We have to get to him.” He turns back to Derek quickly, eyes wide as an idea occurs to him. “The mind meld thing. You can put me in his head. I can bring him back.”

“That won't work,” Derek explains gently, hand resting on the young man's arm and squeezing as he tries to make him see reason. “I can't send you into a—a dead mind. It isn't possible.”

“You _have_ to.” Stiles's voice breaks, and he takes great, heaving breaths as he forces his panic down inside himself. “It's the only way.”

“You'll die,” the Alpha says bluntly. “I won't be responsible for another death.”

Stiles reaches towards Derek suddenly, frames his face with his hands and pulls him forward until they're barely a few inches apart. “Derek,” he breathes, drawing in air like he can't find enough of it. “Derek, do this for me,” He shakes the man's head in his hands, blunt fingernails digging into his scalp, “or I will _make_ you do this for me.” A sob escapes him, and he drops his hands to Derek's shoulders, closing his eyes and crying. “I know—I know this sounds desperate, and it is. It is. But I can't—Derek, I can't live without him. I won't. _Please_.” Stiles opens his eyes with a gasp and folds his arms around Derek's shoulders in a tight embrace. “Please do this for me. I swear—I swear I can get him back.”

Derek returns the hug just as tightly, gaze finding Chris's as he wars with the idea. If he does this and Stiles dies, he will never be able to forgive himself. But if he doesn't and Stiles does something to get himself killed anyway—or worse...

“Okay,” he says huskily, and Stiles pulls back, wide eyes searching his for the truth in the word. Derek nods and strokes Stiles's cheek with the backs of his fingers, scenting the younger man and attempting to calm his own nerves. “Okay, but...if I feel like something's wrong, I'm pulling you back.”

Stiles is nodding before Derek even finishes speaking. “Yes. Yes, that's fine, just...hurry.”

Derek has Chris help him sit Peter up on the couch, Stiles sliding in next to the man and stringing his fingers between the werewolf's cold ones. The three of them take a collective breath as the Alpha unsheathes his claws and places them against the backs of Stiles and Peter's necks. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says simply, closing his eyes and barely having time to register the pain of Derek's claws digging into his skin before everything goes dark.

0 o 0 o 0

_Stiles wakes in Beacon Hills Cemetery._

_He recognizes the plot even though the names on the headstones are jumbled. His mom is buried nearby. So are the Hales. But this is not where he needs to look for Peter._

_Turning, he makes his way towards the front gates. The colors here are vibrant. He wonders if this is how werewolves see the world. Every blade of grass seems in focus as it shivers in a wind he can't feel. The gates creak as they open, and instead of stepping out onto the road beyond the cemetery, Stiles finds himself immediately entering the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. He knows this place, too. Far too well._

_The halls are barren, their color muted compared to the cemetery. That alone puts a feeling of dread in the pit of the young man's stomach. And as he wanders further into the hospital, he finds himself following the incessant sound of a heart monitor. He peers into dark rooms as he passes them, and goosebumps rise on his skin. He feels like he's being watched._

_When he finally locates the source of the noise, he holds his breath. It's Peter's room—the one he was confined to when he was in a coma. His hands ball into fists as he enters, trembling as he approaches the curtain that hides the bed from view. The beeping is loud; it pounds in his head and makes him grimace. But he forces himself to keep moving until he reaches out and swings the curtain aside, metal rings grinding against the bar above him._

_Peter looks small beneath the hospital sheets. Weak. Half of his face is wrapped in gauze, red and yellow stains splotching the material. Stiles's heart pounds as he makes his way to the foot of the bed, reaching out and taking hold of the bed grip._

_“Peter?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper. The man wheezes, his chest shuddering, but makes no other movements. “Peter, I—I need you to wake up.” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek as tears prick his eyes. “I can't do this, babe. I can't keep going if you're not there with me.” He looks around helplessly at the machinery surrounding them—he knows exactly what each one does. But none of them are going to help him now. “I don't know what to do.”_

_A sob escapes him in a sudden burst, and he clutches at the end of the bed as he falls to his knees. What can he do? How can he fix this? There has to be a way. He made such a fuss about coming here—basically threatened Derek, which is definitely going to have some kind of consequence later. And now that he's here—he's useless._

_'Think,' his mind supplies, which isn't entirely helpful. But at least it's something other than giving up. 'What did Scott do to pull you out of the Nogitsune's hold?'_

_“He howled,” he answers aloud, sniffling and shaking his head. “But I can't—I can't do that. I'm just—”_

_'Just what?' his thoughts demand. They sound suspiciously like Peter. 'What are you to him?'_

_Stiles raises his head. “I'm his mate.”_

_'His spark.'_

_The young man stands. “His—flame.” He stares at the werewolf for a long moment. “I'm Peter's flame.”_

_'Then,' the voice says lowly, 'be his flame.'_

_The heat starts deep in his chest. He grabs at it, tugs it forward, builds it until it spreads. Flames lick at his skin, calm at first, then rising, blazing, roaring. He draws in a fire-laced breath, pushing his shoulders back to steel himself, and releases a shout so loud that the very air around him quakes._

_“PETER!”_

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles wakes in the living room of the loft, drawing in a breath that makes his throat ache. He coughs and pitches forward, two sets of hands catching him before he can fall off the couch. Chris and Derek are crouched in front of him, watching him with concern and awe.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and the younger man does his best to focus on him despite the dizziness. “How—How did you do that?”

The spark frowns and blinks until his vision stops spinning. The back of his neck throbs with pain, and he's tired—so, so tired. It takes a few moments to process Derek's words, and even then he's only able to respond with a simple, “Huh?”

Derek huffs incredulously, taking the young man's chin and turning it to the other end of the couch where Peter sits. The older man's eyes are closed, his body lax. But there's color in his skin. He's breathing. His fingers twitch and his brow furrows and he groans as consciousness starts to take hold. 

He's alive.

Their fingers are still linked together, and Stiles squeezes tightly. Peter's hand weakly returns the gesture, though he's not fully awake yet, and the spark sighs in relief. He looks towards Derek and Chris again, smiling and crying and letting exhaustion loosen his limbs until he's slumped back against the couch. “I'm gonna just...pass out for a little bit,” he murmurs before his head falls back and bounces against the couch cushion. 

He's dragged into darkness before he hears Derek's response.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles dreams of the Nemeton. Her magic wraps around him like a blanket as he sits in the center of the stump, placing his hands palms-down on the ancient wood. 

“Show me,” he whispers, stretching his fingers wide. “Show me what happened.”

And she does.

He sees himself and Peter, wrapped around one another in the center of the stump. He sees a hooded figure approach, aura dark and twisted. _Darach._ The figure lowers their hood, and the contorted face of a man wavers in Stiles's vision. 

He watches as Peter awakens with a snarl, shielding Stiles as the Darach lashes out. With a quick swipe of the man's hand through the air, a wound appears on Peter's abdomen. He roars in pain, still crouched over Stiles's sleeping form.

Guilt fills the young spark. He'd been so drained from spell-casting that he hadn't even had the energy to wake and help his mate.

The Darach swipes at the air again, and blood pours from Peter's wound as if forced. He doesn't heal. And the druid moves closer, placing a hand on the Nemeton to claim what he's come for. 

But almost immediately, the man's hand begins to sizzle, smoke, bubble, burn. He pulls back, shaking his hand out like that will ease the pain. It doesn't. The burn continues up his arm, over his chest and neck and face, down his body until he's screaming and writhing on the ground. The first flame appears on his arm and spreads until his body is completely ablaze. His screams are unbearable as they echo into the trees surrounding the clearing.

When the noise finally dies off, the figure collapses, his body burning into nothing and leaving no trace of his existence behind. Peter wheezes and chokes and curls into himself, reaching a trembling hand out and stroking Stiles's face before he stills.

Stiles cries as the Nemeton shows him this, sobs into the nothingness of the dream that isn't quite a dream. “Oh, Peter,” he whispers, watching as several roots reach up out of the Nemeton and carefully wrap around the werewolf. Peter's body seems to sink into the tree's stump, into the safest place that the ancient being can think to take him.

Stiles breathes out with a shuddering gust. “You were trying to protect him,” he says in understanding. “Trying to bring him back—the way he came back before, a magic burial.” The Nemeton answers with a wave of contentment that feels like a sigh, a gentle gust of air fluttering through the spark's hair. “Thank you.”

Stiles doesn't know what more he can say besides that. His gratitude is infinite, but words seem so meaningless compared to what he's feeling. The Nemeton seems pleased with the sentiment nonetheless, and Stiles lets the dream fall away until he finds himself in his bed with Peter.

The man is warm against him, his breathing the most beautiful sound that Stiles has ever heard. Bright blue eyes flash in the dark, and Peter's voice rumbles into the quiet. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Peter,” Stiles whispers, surging forward and blindly capturing the man's lips in a desperate kiss. “Fuck, I was so worried.” He reaches down, presses his hand to the werewolf's abdomen lightly. “Are you healed? Does anything hurt?”

Peter places a hand over his, nuzzling into his neck and sighing. “I'm fine. Derek had me take a healing potion—he's downstairs making sure we both survive the night. I should be fully healed by morning.”

Guilt swallows Stiles whole, and his tears start fresh. “I'm so sorry, Peter.” His chest shudders as he takes in a breath. “I'm so sorry I didn't protect you from that thing. I should have—”

“Stiles,” Peter interrupts, hand squeezing the young man's to get his attention, “you did.”

Quiet stretches between them until Stiles can't stand his own confused thoughts. “What?”

“You saved me from that creature—whatever it was.”

“Darach,” Stiles supplies distantly.

“Yes.”

“But, the Nemeton—”

“Did its part by taking me to safety when I was dying. But the power that killed the Darach,” Peter raises his hand and runs the backs of his fingers along Stiles's cheekbone, “came from you.”

Stiles breathes harshly and shakes his head. “How can you be sure?”

Peter smiles and sighs, closing his eyes and pulling the younger man against him. “I would know your magic anywhere, my spark. The feel and the smell of it—it was undeniably you who saved me.” Stiles wraps an arm around the werewolf and holds as tight as he dares, pressing his face into the man's shirt. “The mind melding we'll talk about later.”

Stiles hunches his shoulders. “I'm not sorry about that,” he mumbles into Peter's chest.

Peter hums. “Go to sleep, my love.”

Stiles does, content with the beat of his mate's heart beneath his ear.

BONUS SCENE: 

Peter fucks into Stiles with a force that he's certain will leave mottled bruises on the young man's pale, mole-pocked skin. He has enough control of himself to keep from truly hurting his mate, and while he's sure his wolf would never let harm come to the spark, he still isn't completely convinced that he should relinquish himself to his inner instincts. 

Stiles, front pressed into the shower wall as Peter pounds into him relentlessly from behind, grunts and gasps as his fingernails scratch uselessly at wet tile. The slap of skin against skin is hypnotizing, too forceful to be completely pleasurable but not painful enough to be dissatisfying. He nearly loses himself in the repetition of it. 

“Stay with me,” Peter demands, his voice deep and rough. The points of his claws dig into Stiles's hips, not breaking skin but eliciting enough discomfort to bring the young man back into the moment.

Stiles's breath stutters. “I'm here,” he promises, groaning when Peter pulls almost all the way out and slams back into him, again and again until the young man can barely stand it. The older man is intentionally avoiding the small bundle of nerves that makes fireworks explode behind Stiles's eyes, that makes the pit of his stomach coil and quiver, that makes tremors wrack his body in the most agonizing, wonderful way. Stiles isn't sure if he's being punished, made to suffer for what he did to bring his mate back. But he would suffer a thousand times if it meant having this, keeping this.

He won't apologize for what he's done. And perhaps that's what makes Peter angriest.

Peter comes with a sound that's a mix between a growl and a shout, hips stuttering until he's spent. The younger man squeezes around Peter's softening cock, moaning at the burn of it and the frustration of being unable to find his own release. The cock ring at the base of his shaft seems to tighten as his erection throbs. Peter has come inside him twice already, not bothering to pull out between rounds, and Stiles feels full to bursting. The slick slide of cum leaking from his entrance around Peter's cock and down his thighs makes him shiver, sending a new wave of ache through him.

“Are you sorry yet, darling?” Peter pants against the back of his neck, pressing kisses into the young spark's skin as he circles his hips.

Stiles groans, forehead hitting tile as he lets his head drop forward. “No,” he proclaims through gritted teeth. “And I won't be. Ever.”

Peter hums, claws raking up and down Stiles's sides. “Good. I can keep this up all night.”

With a huff, Stiles lifts his head and turns it slightly until Peter is just in the corner of his vision. “The water heater won't last that long.” The shower's spray is still warm, but he can feel its heat begin to wane the longer they stand beneath it.

The older man leans forward until his chest is flush against Stiles's back, taking the spark's chin and turning his head further so that their mouths are a mere inch apart. “Can you handle one more round, sweetheart?”

Stiles smirks. “I've handled more.”

“I know,” Peter concedes, fingers gentling as they slide along Stiles's stubbled jaw. “But I've been a bit rough with you tonight.”

Stiles closes his eyes, releasing a shuddering breath and stringing his fingers with Peter's. “I'm going to hurt so fucking good in the morning.”

Peter kisses him, slow and gentle. “I'll take care of you.” He kisses a line beneath Stiles's jaw, making the young man lift his chin as he sucks at his pulse point. “Breakfast in bed.” He licks a trail to Stiles's shoulder, nipping at the skin there. “We can make out all morning.” He nuzzles a spot behind the spark's ear that he knows sends shivers up his spine. “I can give you a full-body massage.”

Stiles moans and lets his head fall back on Peter's shoulder. “Those usually end with me being fucked into our mattress.”

With a chuckle and a roll of his hips, Peter smiles against the shell of the young man's ear. “That's the point of them,” he says breathlessly, gasping as his cock twitches inside of his mate. “Ready, my love?”

“Mmm,” Stiles hums, bracing his hands on the wall again and pushing back against the older man. “Ready when you are, babe.”

Peter smiles wide, hands gripping the young man's hips as he pulls out a couple of inches and pushes back in. “Have I told you how much I love it when you call me that?”

Stiles laughs, mouth dropping open as Peter begins to harden inside him again, as each thrust becomes rougher. “Call you what, babe?”

Peter smacks one of Stiles's ass cheeks, chuckling when it draws a gasp from the younger man. “Should I let you come, darling?”

With a moan, the young spark scratches at the shower tiles. “Yes, Peter, please. Fuck! I wanna come so bad.”

“Then tell me you're sorry.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “No.”

Peter suddenly pulls out of the younger man and spins him around, slamming his back against the shower wall. “Why?” he growls. “You could have killed yourself.”

“I'm not living without you, Peter,” Stiles pants, shaking under the werewolf's scrutiny but squaring his shoulders and meeting his gaze. 

“And what if you had managed to bring me back while you died?” Peter demands, hands flattening against the wall on either side of the younger man's shoulders as he boxes Stiles in. “You would allow me to live without you, but not vice-versa?”

Stiles reaches up, cupping the older man's face in his hands as he searches for the words he needs. “No,” he whispers, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “No, I would have followed you into death, Peter.” He swallows tightly and opens his eyes again, centering the man with a serious look. “You keep telling me not to be sorry. And now, when I do something that I don't feel the need to apologize for, you demand that I show remorse?” He shakes his head and bares his teeth. “Fuck that. And fuck you, Peter. I will not apologize for loving you. I don't give a shit if that pisses you off or if that makes me look selfish. Because _I am_ selfish when it comes to you.” One of his hands slides to the back of Peter's head, gripping the hair there and pulling tight until the werewolf's chin lifts slightly. “No one gets to take you away from me—not even _Death_.”

Peter breathes hard as he studies his spark, his mate, his _everything_. “Jealous,” he says before capturing Stiles's lips and lifting him off the ground by the backs of his thighs. 

“Yes,” Stiles agrees, grip in Peter's hair tightening as the man presses him back against the wall and slides into him again. 

“Greedy,” the werewolf accuses, one hand working its way between them to remove the cock ring from Stiles's straining shaft.

The spark hisses and groans. “Yes.”

Peter moves in the younger man with desperate thrusts, their mouths barely a breath apart. “Possessive.”

Stiles trembles and whines as pleasure ripples up his spine. “Mine,” he whimpers, wrapping his arms around Peter's shoulders and holding him tight against himself. “You belong to me, Peter.”

“Mark me,” the werewolf demands, his hips jerking harshly as warmth pools into the pit of his stomach. “Show that I belong to you. Only you.”

Stiles barely thinks about it. He opens his mouth wide and fits it over the space between the werewolf's shoulder and neck just above his right collarbone, teeth clamping down into Peter's skin as he comes. He moans as he feels flesh tear, the tang of blood flowing into his mouth. He pours his magic into the bite, begs it to lay claim to his mate just as Peter laid claim to him, that they both be marked by each other. 

Peter howls, thrusting hard into the younger man until he finds release again. His vision whites at the sensation of his mate's teeth on him— _in_ him. It burns. He comes back to himself on his knees, Stiles wrapped around him and running a hand through his hair as he murmurs into his ear. 

“I've got you,” the young man whispers, cries, promises. “I've got you, Peter. It's okay.”

Peter leans back carefully, and Stiles smiles at him with bloodied teeth and wild eyes. “You look amazing,” he rasps, blinking the haze from his vision and breathing hard. “Absolutely stunning.”

Stiles laughs and circles the bite on Peter with his fingers. “I hope it stays.”

“It will,” Peter says confidently, inhaling deeply and frowning at the shower wall as something suddenly occurs to him. “Why does it smell like Christopher in here?”

The spark ducks his head and presses a kiss to his claiming mark on the werewolf. “About that...”

**Author's Note:**

> I love you!  
> I love you!  
> I love you!
> 
> Have I told you that enough? My goodness, you should hear that everyday. Several times, in fact. Because you are so incredibly loved and so ridiculously amazingly cosmically important in this universe. Every little bit of you is just wonderful, and I hope you know that you deserve the plethora of good vibes I am sending your way.
> 
> Beautiful being, I am in awe of you. Be safe! Stay warm! Put good into this crazy universe! And please, please, please take care of yourself.


End file.
